Color to Pigments
by alittlelikehome
Summary: This is a piece about Izzie discovering Denny in death. It does get descriptive about the way she find him, and her distress. While not obscenely detailed, I want to warn you if you do not like to read about death and the after math.


To those who have read Let the World Go Turning By, I can only apologize for the abrupt stop. I don't do big, weepy tales, I only write them, so I won't get into the whole deal. Suffice to say, it was not good, I wasn't doing so hot, and this piece is what slipped out in the aftermath. Izzie, conveniently lends her storyline to what was coming out, lol. Poor beat up, Izzie! I am hoping after this is out of my system, I can get back to my happy story. J This is grim, but hopefully you will enjoy the read.

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When I entered, I was bouncing and light. Ageless like I never have been. For once I had hopes beyond scalpels and big cities. I would be a wife. I would have the funny, charming husband. We would have dinner parties, and vacations. He would tell me I was too serious, I would tell him he was too glib, we would bicker, and kiss. Maybe make love right there where we fought minutes before.

I picked my dress special for him. I had dressed myself in a classic way, if only to see delight in his eyes. I couldn't wait to see the look on his face. I went forward without any trepidation.

First I noticed an uncovered leg.

Then, I saw he was bundled oddly beneath covers.

Not a single twitch.

Surely this was a prank?

He had an icy ambiance that chilled me once I was in reach. His skin was no longer pinked with jolly flush, but blue like waters that you didn't dare swim or sail. Still bodied on the bed, he was treacherous. I felt him with a surprisingly steadied hand. I fell entranced to his waxy skin, puckered with Death's kiss. Well manicured hands bore brittle nails, and unnatural translucency.

I slipped into scratchy sheets to press myself to him. To warm him. Breathe life into the barren. He wouldn't move. He didn't laugh, or turn subtly and wrap an arm around me. I longed to be close. To touch what I intuitively knew had slipped away. I clutched his body, now stiff with rigor, and cried my first tears onto an unforgiving ending. There was no option but to stare unseeingly towards a white wall and play my discovery in my mind like a cut and crackled film.

They found me in the same catatonic state in his cold grasp hours, or maybe minutes later. No words could soothe, and no hands could pry. I was simply oblivious. Just me, a white wall, and the memory of what lay beside me.

No longer coaxing, I was torn away. Not that I really noticed. The scene played on and on in the stairwell, the car, and at home.

In a moment of sense I fled for the bathroom to let loose my revulsion. I rinsed my bitter mouth in the bathroom sink, and looked into hollowed eyes I didn't recognize. The girl in the mirror was a pale imitation in a classy gown that now seemed offensive in it's entirety. I shrieked at her reflection, refusing to believe it could be me. I pounded marble, and glass until I fell to ground in defeat.

For hours and hours I laid on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. Everyone assumed that I was staring into nothing, because they didn't understand. To concentrate on the color, and the shape of each tile until I could analyze the grout's texture was the only way to feel alive. I was practically cellular. One piece at a time. Bright prom dresses and fragile faces were prohibited. My mind's eye needed to stroke the sandy miles while I prepared for mental Babylon when It would hit.

Denny.

Those cut up scenes amounted to the fate of him. There would never be kisses, or sex, or wedding bells, because he's cold, and empty. Only somber dresses, with somber faces in a never ending procession. I could scream and fight and make scenes, but it wouldn't change anything. My dress would soon change to an inky shift, covering pasty skin, and grooves bore into my side from the bathroom floor.

I once again traced my mental pattern,

Color to pigments.

Grid to square.

White rivers that became sandy shores that were rough to touch.

Crystallized to infinite.

A trembling finger reached out to grate against them.

A feeling that never registered was now my outlet to life.

Tomorrow was another day. I could worry myself about shapeless dresses, ugly flowers, and featureless faces then.

At the thought my breathing became a battle. I let out gasps into nothing. An ache rang through me like a million bells clanging at the final hour. My nails dug into the soft flesh of my palms. Droplets of blood fell to the floor.

I couldn't do this. My body begged to breathe despite my protests and panic.

I drew in deep and returned again to my start.

Color to pigments…


End file.
